


In Memoriam

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 06:49:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11526810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: August 24th acts as a cursed day in the life of Joan Ferguson.





	In Memoriam

**Author's Note:**

  * For [The_Saint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Saint/gifts).



> Shoutout to Saint for this devastating idea in which the anniversary of Jianna's death correlates with her birthday. I thought that would be a perfect incentive for more suffering by incorporating Vera handing the teal back to her.

August 24th acts as a cursed day in the life of Joan Ferguson.

Like Vera, she loathes birthdays, but the fact remains unknown to her underling. The single similarity between Vera and herself is enough to render her sick.

Vera wears her bleeding heart upon her sleeve and that will be her downfall.

Of that, Joan is certain.

Today marks the anniversary of Jianna's passing.

Jianna died on August 24th. Jianna died and didn't give her a gift, but a curse.

Alone, Joan folds her hands together, left to ruminate on the past that haunts her. She sits on the prison issued mattress that's riddled with broken springs and questionable stains. She has requested for a new one; Vera denies the request.

As a ghost, the cell becomes inherently more lonely.

Scarred fingers conceal a portion of her brow, darting up to rub her aching temple. She can hear Jianna's whisper pouring into the shell of her ear: I've a gift for you, Joan. Little Shane, too.

She, however, didn't expect the gift to be a fucking _noose_ around her beloved's throat.

Distraught by the vulnerability of human emotion, she stares at the palms of her open hands.

The click of heels signify the arrival of a little mouse. A box weighs Vera's arms down. She clutches the cardboard -- saying nothing, saying everything.

“Hello, Vera. It's not my birthday.”

Waves of denial come crashing over her.

Governor Bennett lingers in the doorway. A small smile tightens to match her steeled resolve.

No matter what ruse Vera Bennett dons, nothing can betray the hurt in her eyes -- it manifests every time she so much as looks at Joan.

“You've brought me a gift.”

The astute observation covers up a begrudging reluctance.

She doesn't want the gift.

She would rather spend her time alone, counting down the hours until midnight. Until the next day. Until this awful affliction runs its course.

Vera pats down the flaps to the box. Sets the artifact on the edge of the mattress.

“I've just come from a board meeting. One that you would find of interest,” Governor Bennett replies.

Her pathetic little underling drones on, squashing the conspiracy theory that crawled out from the prison woodwork.

 _Today isn't a special day, Ferguson._ This is what Vera tells herself when she stands up to the great beast in the room. She stands tall despite feeling so fucking small. Her petite build straightens, tries to compensate for her meek nature.

“If you think I'm going to give you the satisfaction of what's in the box, you're sadly mistaken,” Joan quips.

There is a need for control written deep in her soul.

With a growing sense of urgency, she seeks to gain the upperhand in the conversation.

She tilts her head, attempting to get a better look at the cardboard box that now undertakes a sinister connotation.

“I'm kidding. What's in the box?”

Joan would rather Vera stay and have a seat beside her. Even in the silence, there is something to be gained (a distraction from the gaping hole that's infiltrated her tar black soul). For a fleeting moment, she contemplates issuing her grand apology, but she would much rather swallow hemlock in the fashion of Socrates. Pride is a difficult thing to break.

Ignoring the jest, Vera steps away – she's not here to feed into the games, unaware of how much Joan's heart bleeds on this fatal day.

Perhaps on another day, Vera will show how much she cares, but by then, it'll be too late. The Kangaroo Court represents judgment riding in on a black, black horse.

“Getting out of here might take a lot longer than you thought,” Miss Bennett surmises.

“I suppose you think you're clever,” Joan whispers, not in retaliation, but in a hoarse tone sapped of energy.

“I think the size is right,” Vera states with another step back.

The door slams shut.

Vera's conscience now weighs heavier than before, the scales imbalanced. 

Joan stares at the box, as though it's a ticking time bomb. She reacts accordingly, prepared to dismantle the burden that now stands within this cell. Her heart thumps within her chest. Her father's voice is akin to a shot in the dark: nowhere to be found.

She opens the ' gift ' from Vera, finding not one shred of sympathy in the discovery. Out comes the prison jumper. The teal swims through her fingers. She holds it to her chest. Inhales the scent of freshly washed cotton.

Another year passes for Joan Ferguson.

She pretends that the fabric is Shane as a mewling infant, held close to her chest.

She feigns that the softness of the cotton is Jianna's hair, spilling through her fingers.

"Forgive me, Jianna," she mumbles to the emptiness of the concrete tomb that's called a bloody room.

As always, she will survive and rise from the ashes.

Today marks Jianna Riley's passing and she's left with a reminder of their mutual incarceration.

**Author's Note:**

> Nice to tap into Joan's humanity for a change even though it's like digging into an open wound and picking off the scab.


End file.
